Scanned and proofed by unknown.

  Additional proofing by Highroller.

  Death Rites

  by Tanya Huff

  Tanya Huff lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner, four cats, and an unintentional chihuahua. After sixteen fantasies, she wrote her first space opera, Valor's Choice (DAW, April 2000); her sequel to Summon The Keeper, called The Second Summoning, is a DAW March 2001 release. In her spare time she gardens and complains about the weather.

  AS the sun rose and the Seventh Army rose with it, the assassin's body appeared, lifted up over the top of the fortress wall by unseen hands.

  "Marshal Arnon!"

  Holding his kilt, the marshal stepped out of his tent in time to hear the soft melon crack of the assassin's head hitting stone as the body reached the end of its arc. "Sound carries in these hills," he said thoughtfully, threading straps through buckles and cinching them tight. Kilt secured, he glanced up first at the wall and then at the senior of the two soldiers on guard. "Was that what you wanted me to see?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The marshal nodded and turned on one bare heel back toward the tent. "Tell Commander Zayit I want to see her immediately. You have my permission to leave your post."

  "Sir, if Orban is dead…"

  Marshal Arnon glanced up from his breakfast. "I think we can safely say that Orban is dead, Commander."

  "Yes, sir. Orban's death—added to Visolela's and Ganit's—leaves the Seventh Army with only two assassins. Both are very young and wouldn't stand a chance against Commander Jolan—ex-Commander Jolan," she corrected hurriedly as the marshal's expression darkened.

  "Especially as Jolan has already dealt with Orban, Visolela, and Ganit?"

  Commander Zayit winced at the question clearly not intended to be answered. The failure of the three assassins was, in a sense, the marshal's failure, and he wasn't the sort of man who'd appreciate the reminder.

  They'd effortlessly regained the three villages that had fallen under the ex-commander's control, but First and Second Divisions together had not yet been able to come up with a way to pry her out of her hilltop fortress—which wasn't surprising since the place had fallen to Imperial expansion originally by betrayal from within. All three dead assassins had managed to get inside the walls but with Jolan expecting them…

  A coin hit the table in front of her. Startled, she looked up to see the marshal's amber eyes locked on her face.

  "Crescent for your thoughts, Commander?"

  "I was just thinking about the situation, sir."

  "Yes, the situation." His lip curled. "It's beginning to look as though a siege is my only choice. So much for a quick and glorious end to Jolan's treason."

  "Yes, sir." A siege had been his only choice from the moment he'd allowed the ex-commander's small army to reach the hill fort. Too bad it had taken the lives of so many good soldiers to prove it to him.

  "You're thinking again. How long was the siege in '64?" he continued before she could work out the response he required.

  Zayit waited until he finished wiping his face with a damp cloth and said, "Almost two years, sir."

  "Seventeen years ago." He indicated to his body servant that the table could be cleared. "And Jolan was there."

  "Yes, sir."

  "How long do you think she was planning this… rebellion."

  Probably from the moment some pissant third cousin of the Emperor was promoted over officers who actually knew what they were doing. "I don't know, sir."

  "No. Of course not."

  Zayit stepped out of the way as Arnon stood and strode purposefully from his tent, falling into step behind his left shoulder as he passed. When he stopped at his customary place and stared toward the fortress, she wondered if he was thinking about the men and women who, by his command, had charged the narrow approach and died. Not once, but twice.

  "I think we can safely say she's stocked up on arrows, rocks, and oil," had been the marshal's only comment at the time.

  His tent should have been in the center of the encampment, but he'd ordered it placed so Jolan could see him from the walls.

  "I want her to know I'm here."

  "I doubt she cares," Commander Baird had muttered a little too loudly and now Zayit was the only senior officer the marshal saw.

  "The raven's back, sir."

  "Are you certain it's the same bird, Commander?"

  She was, actually. Something set this raven apart. It was larger than most, and it had a way of staring into the camp that lifted all the hair on the back of her neck. Today, it had drifted silently down to land beside the crumpled black figure outside the fortress walls. "Yes sir. I'm certain."

  Then a second raven landed like a shadow beside the first.

  "It seems to have found a companion."

  "Yes, sir. Shall I send a squad out to collect the body?"

  "No. Let him lie, as Visolela and Ganit lie."

  "Sir, Visolela and Ganit went off the cliff. Orban is on the road."

  "I see where the body is, Commander. Why do you think Jolan had it thrown onto the road? Precisely so we would send a squad to reclaim it." He squared broad shoulders and folded his arms. "But I give the orders here, not her."

  Zayit couldn't see his face, but she could hear the edged smile in his voice. Her right hand clutched at the silver-and-onyx ring she wore on the smallest finger of her left hand. The ring, given to officers with their commission, marked her as priest of Jür, Goddess of Battles. The marshal's ring held a ruby, the color of fresh blood. As he commanded the Seventh Army, he was high priest of its goddess as well. He'd accepted the position as his due and had performed the necessary rituals with pomp and circumstance.

  To challenge his belief would be to challenge his authority as the marshal of the Seven Armies and destroy her career.

  At least five soldiers—as well as the two on guard— were close enough to have overheard. By midday, everyone would know Marshal Arnon had refused rites to one of the dead.

  "Sir, we weren't able to do the rites for the others, but Orban…"

  "Will have to do without them as well. I have brought two divisions here for Jolan, burned a village, and lost three assassins. Now, I will have to maintain a division at her feet indefinitely. I think she has dictated quite enough." He nodded toward the road. "Besides, Jür has sent her ravens. I'd say it was Visolela and Ganit come for their friend, but assassins have no friends, even among themselves. Have a courier prepare, and I'll send my decision to the capital this morning."

  Eyes locked on the ravens, Zayit started. "Your decision, sir?"

  "About the siege, Commander." Turning, he smiled down at her. "I doubt the Emperor, my cousin, needs to be kept abreast of carrion."

  "Yes, sir." She remained where she was until she heard the tent flap fall, and then she stayed a moment longer as the senior of the soldiers standing guard murmured, "Why aren't the ravens feeding?"

  They were standing, one at each end of the body, looking toward the camp.

  The marshal of the Seventh Army was the Emperor's cousin and that brought his message directly to the Emperor. His Imperial Majesty read the report and asked to speak personally with the courier.

  "Meaning no disrespect, Majesty," Marshal Usef of the First Army protested, "but why?"

  "Why indeed?" the Emperor asked dryly. "Given that Arnon allowed the traitor to reach the hill fort in the first place, I find it difficult to believe things are going as well as he suggests."

  "You think he lies to you, Majesty?"

  "I think he omits detail, Usef."

  Face flushed, the Emperor slid forward to the edge of his throne. "Do I understand you to say that Marshal Arnon refused death rites to a blade of Jür?"

  "Yes, Majesty."

  "When he could have recovered the body?"

  "Yes, Majesty."

  "And this is known?"

  "Yes, Majesty."

  The Emperor lifted his gaze from the kneeling courier, met Marshal Usef's eye, and jerked his head toward the door. When the courier was gone and the two men were alone, he growled, "Didn't we send our cousin to the South Province to keep him out of trouble?"

  "Yes, Majesty. You'd observed he was neither stupid nor without ambition."

  "I've changed my mind about the stupid part." He slapped the rolled report against his thigh. "He'll send both divisions over to that traitor if he keeps this up. He'll turn a small rebellion into a civil war."

  "That is possible, Majesty." The current border of the Seventh Province had been secure for barely a generation.

  "I want this taken care of. Now. Send a message immediately—Second Division can go back to the garrison, but Arnon's to remain with the siege."

  "Punishment, Majesty?"

  "Let's just say I'm not happy with him." The Emperor's smile was tight. "If I'm to fix this, I can't have him wandering all over Jür's battlefield."

  "Shall I…"

  "No." A raised hand cut Usef's question short. "He's family. I'll deal with it myself."

  Marshal Chela of the Sixth Army read the message handed directly into her care by an Imperial Courier for the third time. His Imperial Majesty wanted to borrow her best assassin. Unfortunately, her best assassin would be under the authority of the garrison's healers for another few weeks.

  "If his… Imper… i… al Majes… ty com… mands…"

  "Lie down, Neegan." Chela pushed him back onto the bed with her voice. Not even she would touch an assassin uninvited. "Even if the healers would let you go, I'm not sure I would. Jolan's already

destroyed three blades—I'm not saying you wouldn't be able to deal with her under normal circumstances, but you've got a hole in your throat you've barely recovered from."

  His lips pressed into a thin line, and one brow rose.

  Chela, who'd known him for twenty years, translated easily. "Then why am I here? I want to know what you think about my sending Vree and Bannon instead. Granted they're young, but they're good—they should be, with you overseeing their training—and they'll be unexpected. Jolan resigned her commission before they were posted, and as far as I know there has never been a team of assassins in the Seven Armies before." Her smile nearly buried her eyes in curves of flesh. "Also, it's considerably more politic to send the Emperor an option rather than a refusal."

  Neegan held out a thin hand. "Or… ders…"

  "Sorry, my eyes only. And theirs if you think they can handle the job."

  This expression a stranger could have translated.

  "How can you decide if you don't know what you're sending them into?" She lowered her bulk onto the stool beside the bed. "This much is common knowledge: Commander Jolan's treason has allowed Arnon, that pompous ass, to put himself into a bad situation. The fortress is impossible to take down from without, but there's a way in Jolan hasn't been able to find or she'd have closed it down. It isn't like her to make a point by killing assassins as they come through."

  "Ar… un?"

  She smiled again at the missing rank. An assassin had no family but the army. For Neegan to deliberately insult a superior officer… "They'll be taking no orders from Marshal Arnon. The Emperor is taking care of this; they go in under his orders alone."

  He forced a lungful of air through the ruin of his throat. "Send… them."

  Bannon dug a finger into one of the grain bags they rode with and ground the kernels together. "I'm not sure I like being loaned out like a waterskin or a whetstone."

  "Orders are orders," Vree shrugged without looking over at her brother. She didn't have to look, she knew what she'd see. He'd be lying back, wearing only kilt and sandals and a petulant expression. "These orders just happen to come directly from the Emperor."

  "Yeah? And that's another thing. Since when does the Emperor get directly involved in this sort of shit?"

  "When it involves family," she said with pointed emphasis on the last word.

  "An assassin has no family but the army," Bannon reminded her, poking her hard in the ribs.

  The carter glanced back at the wrestling match, shaking her head. Easy to believe these two had trained together all their lives—they fit together like moving puzzle pieces. Less easy to believe they were brother and sister, in spite of an obvious physical resemblance. There was a sexuality in the way he moved that teased and provoked at the same time and a tension in her responses indicated she was well aware of it.

  None of my business, the carter reminded herself. All assassins were a little bit crazy, and rumors in the Sixth Army said these two were crazier than most.

  Just before noon, they passed the ruin of Saburo. The buildings and most of the surrounding olive groves had been burned. In the months since, very little had been rebuilt.

  "After Commander Jolan pulled back, Marshal Arnon turned the Seventh Army loose on it," the carter explained when Bannon asked why.

  Which was all the explanation necessary.

  If Marshal Arnon turned the army loose, there wasn't anything to rebuild with.

  "The people of Saburo probably thought that sort of thing never happened to Imperial citizens," Vree observed dryly.

  "That'll teach them to harbor traitors," her brother agreed in the same almost sarcastic tone.

  The carter heard double, even triple meanings, and decided not to ask.

  They stopped in the heat of the day, feeding, watering and resting the oxen, then continued in the relative cool of the evening. Just before dark, the carter looped the reins and swiveled around on the seat. They were getting close; an army encampment left a distinct signature on the breeze, and she wanted to let her passengers know they should start thinking about slipping away unseen.

  They'd already slipped.

  Both assassins and their kit had vanished. They'd even shuffled the indentations of their bodies out of the bags of grain.

  Impressed, in spite of her pique, for the only sounds they'd had to cover their departure had been made by the wagon itself, she'd barely turned back to her oxen when she heard a horse approaching. A moment after that an Imperial Courier appeared out of the dusk, the single golden starburst on his banner catching the last light of the setting sun.

  "You've got to admire their sense of timing," she muttered, but whether she was speaking of the assassins or the courier she wasn't entirely sure.

  'The Emperor has taken care of it."

  "Sir?"

  Marshal Arnon waved the message with its broken Imperial seal under the commander's nose. "First he keeps me here, and now he has sent his own assassin into the fortress. I am to have my people in position so that when the gates are opened they can take advantage of the opportunity his Imperial Majesty has provided."

  Commander Zayit frowned. "There are no assassins in the First Army."

  "You think the Emperor can't get assassins if he needs them?"

  "No, sir."

  "No, sir, indeed," the marshal mocked, throwing the message down onto his map table with enough force that its passage caused the lamp hanging from the centerpole to swing violently back and forth, painting dark shadows on the inside walls of the tent.

  "When will the gates be opened, sir?" Zayit asked, trying not to think of how much the shadows looked like raven's wings. The longer the army spent looking at the dried and desiccated bundle Orban had become, the longer they spent speculating about the birds— three of them now—that came every morning to perch between them and the fortress, the longer they had to mutter about rites denied, the less like an army they were and the more like a mob. So far discipline had held, but it was becoming harder and harder for the officers to hold things together. If something didn't happen soon…

  "The gate opens tomorrow morning. My Imperial cousin tells me to ready the division without warning the sentries on the wall. Does he think I'm a complete idiot? This is my army!"

  Actually, it was the Emperor's army, but that was another thing the marshal didn't like to be reminded of.

  "Well, don't just stand there, Commander! Ready a company!" Lip curled, the marshal turned on her, arms spread sarcastically wide. "Didn't you hear: the Emperor has taken care of it."

  The easiest way to avoid being given orders by Marshal Arnon was to avoid Marshal Arnon—their orders had been quite clear about that. They'd been less clear about other aspects of the job.

  The original courier had known little about how the three dead assassins had gotten into the city. He knew there was a stream. It wasn't much, but since Orban, called from Third Division after the deaths of the other two assassins, had found it with the same information, Vree and Bannon weren't concerned. They'd all survived the same training, and an access to a target that one of their peers could find, they could find faster.

  The stream was easy to find. As dusk turned to true darkness and the sky over the hills turned from sapphire to onyx, they reached the place where it poured out of the earth. Knee-deep in the icy water, Bannon ran a hand under the rock lip as far as he could. "If's doable," he said at last, stepping out. "But only just. If you had anything in the way of tits, sister-mine, you'd never make it."

  Vree snorted and began stripping off her uniform. "Then you'd better keep your sling on, I'd hate for you to scrape anything that dangled off against a rock."

  His smile flashed white in the darkness. "That water's so cold, it won't much matter."

  They kept their voices low, the essess softened, although they were too far from either camp or fortress to be heard. Caution had kept them alive for the last two years—unlike most seventeen-and eighteen-year-olds, they had a clear knowledge of their own mortality.

  Prepared for the stream and the sort of swim it had likely meant, they separated the necessities out of their kit and wrapped them in waxed linen, careful to keep the bundles compact.

  "Who goes first?"

  "It'd better be me," Bannon sighed stepping back into the water wearing his sling and a throwing knife strapped to his left forearm. "I'm bigger. If get stuck, I want you behind me where you can shove."

 

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